Physics Did Them In ......

I have been working the past 18 months on a book. It is a novel about a CIA agent who goes directly to work right from college graduation. The agent's name is Max 'Lion' Irons. You get to experience his exploits from 1979 to whenever I finally finish the book.

The period from '79 to '98 builds up to 9/11. Max gets assigned to NYC and the fun begins. He gets involved with Sandy Hook and Orlando as a 'consultant'. Via those two events, he works backwards to solve 9/11.

This isn't Tom Clancy technical stuff. It is about the characters. Max is like a Jim Rockford in approach and personality. I have Max sort of follow my timeline where I lived until '98. I try to put some of my personality into Max's character.

Below is the beginning framework for the book. There may be some grammar errors but my niece will be doing the final typing and editing. I hope to be done in a couple years or so.

I am skipping around the book's timeline and then will try to piece it all together. Sort of like writing a song. The book is my take on history hopefully made simple enough for everyone to understand. Maybe it will hit the number one best seller list at the Dollar Store.

The morning mall walkers were on their usual pace following the same counter-clockwise path they take day after day. This particular morning was no different with one exception: a new government was now ruling the land.

The dark days following 911 are a part of history. For the first time in many decades, the stranglehold of a neocon agenda is no longer in effect. Three-hundred thirty million citizens of the United States and the rest of the free world can live in relative peace. No more fake events leading to fake wars to protect people against fake enemies.

The usual small talk at the mall coffee cafe seating area is replaced by wonderment in knowing dreams can still come true regardless of one's age. The doubts of a senior generation during a lifetime of neocon rule are replaced with anticipation to live out the remaining years free and proud.

I sat amongst the regulars at the cafe listening to thirty-second sound byte conversations that permeated the air. Old man Lou told everyone in sight he knew that 911 was a fraud. Mattie from the east side still had her doubts. Charlie, the former bookie during the sixties and seventies, bet everyone within hearing range that all this optimism would last less than a year. A few were 'official 911 story' believers but switched to 'I told you so' Truthers. They were easy to spot and the center of my attention.

"I can't believe the Bush family was involved. They never mentioned this on Fox News," Meryl quietly replied. "O'Reilly would have told us the truth."

Meryl represented all the lost causes who for many years bought everything the mass media sold. I called them the 'clueless'. Too lazy to get their butts off the couch and investigate for themselves. You try and explain to them what is really going on but it goes in one ear and out the other.

"Excuse me, Meryl, did you actually look at a picture of the crash site at Shanksville? How could you ever think a plane crashed there? People like you made it harder for me to show the facts of what really happened," I implied. A stare but no reply from Meryl who was more concerned about going south for the winter. She had no idea who I was this joyous morning.

My name is Max Irons. Some call me 'Lion'. I have a story to tell in the following pages. It is all true. You the reader have it easy. Sit in your favorite chair and read. Me the story teller had it hard. While you munch on popcorn reading, I supply the story of quite the adventure from 1979 to present time.

I arose from my cafe seat to finally head out to the airport after a two-day stay with friends to take a flight home to New York City. I bid adieu to the overall nice regulars who have frequented this cafe spot for years. I did not have it in me to tell them I was the one responsible for providing evidence that made this day so unique.

I remember my first day as a newbie at the Central Intelligence Agency. I was hired right out of college in May of 1979. Never in my wildest dreams, when I started college, did I ever expect to work for any government agency let alone the CIA. What transpired in the following years is the reason for this book. Enjoy the ride as I take you along my version of the Beatles, 'Magical Mystery Tour'.

Chapter One

May 4, 1979

Graduation is always a sad day whether in high school or college. I sat restlessly as the commencement speaker babbled on explaining the 'future was ours' to take. My job at the CIA would begin immediately after this graduation ceremony. My new supervisor was in attendance waiting to take me to my first assignment in a small, run down office located east of Cleveland, Ohio.

Harry Barr was a crusty looking thirty year veteran of the CIA. He looked much older than sixty, but his mind was whip sharp and his sarcastic tongue even sharper. Harry had few peers in his day. He had even fewer friends. Mrs. Barr, who Harry called 'honbun', was satisfied with Harry's paycheck. And it showed with always glamorous looks and every toy an adult could desire. Glenda was bored with Harry. I saw it the first time I met her. Drinking made her rather loose as she made a one-time move on me. Her advances rejected, she gave me a sly wink as if to imply it would not be the last move on me.

Harry and I drove out of the college parking lot as I took one last look where I spent the previous four years. I would never get the chance to return to my alma mater until last year. Harry would always say, 'why go back...look forward'. Harry joined the CIA in 1949. Seems he befriended an officer in WWII who ran plane parts through the black market to the benefit of the officer's bank account. Harry figured out what was going on but kept his mouth shut, a requirement working for the CIA. Harry knew the game then and right up to his death in 1991. All of four people attended his funeral. Word had it that Glenda had to pay these four people to attend. Like I said, Harry had few friends.

My new employer put me up in a fifteen dollar a night motel within walking distance of my office. My first car was a '73 Nova that lasted one year with the sole purpose of going to work and returning home. I miss that rust bucket. My first day at work was like most peoples first day at work. Sweaty armpits and nervous talk trying to fit in with some of the most uptight people you will ever meet. Five minutes into that first day I was told, 'we wear ties during work hours'. I never forgot that advice. Even if you are a total dumbass in the CIA, as long as you wear a tie then everything will be hunky-dory. Harry never wore a tie. And no one ever told him to wear a tie. I wanted that respect one day.

Harry and the office crew took me to my first office happy hour at Huggys on Main. A bucket of five beers for five dollars. Perfect fit for my meager starting salary.

"Come over here, Max. Let me tell you a story," bellowed an obvious 'happy hour' Harry. We sat apart from the others as I was told a customary tale given to first year CIA workers.

"You have been here all of six months. You think you got the world by the balls. Quick with the smooth line to a potential bar pick-up. All is right in your young world ," Harry said elegantly. "Problem is......YOU ARE STILL a college educated little SHIT!." I think I now understand why Harry Barr has no friends. He tells it like it is for your betterment. I didn't realize it at that time but he was trying to tell me that I had potential in his eyes. Increasingly red eyes from the beer. Harry didn't realize it that night, but he made a new friend. Me. For the next six years, Harry taught me about the underbelly of a bloated government system that was as cruel as any in the world.

My first real assignment came not long after that happy hour indoctrination. I was to investigate a possible infiltration of Canadian moonshiner types. Seriously. I thought the CIA was supposed to be full of intrigue like a James Bond movie. Apparently, illegal profits were being directed to an organization for the sole purpose of disrupting election results. In other words, someone was trying to buy votes. The case was dropped from sight when word came down from the Columbus office that a former CIA agent was among these Canadian vote buyers. I put in about a months work on the case when this word came down. I meticulously wrote my summation report in proper CIA format. Proud as a peacock, I turned in my report expecting a good review. Harry took one look at it and pulled out a lighter, set fire to the report, and threw it in his trash can. I knew not to ask.

"Do you remember giving me a report? I don't remember you giving me a report. Hey Karen, did you see Max giving me a report? Now where were we, Max?" said a non-flustered Harry Barr. Don't you love a guy like that.

My first year was uneventful. Three assignments total. Boring. Did I make the right employment choice? Am I going insane but not aware of it? No love life to speak of. In other words, should I update my resume? I swept those thoughts away and looked forward to things changing going into year two with the CIA.

July 1980

One morning Harry came into my small cubicle area and plopped his body into the chair next to my desk. He had a look in his eyes that I had not seen before. It took a minute for Harry to gather his thoughts. He then said very directly to me in a serious manner, "YOU and I are going to take a trip. Be packed by the morning. This may last awhile."

'Awhile' was an understatement. I lived out of a suitcase for the next four months. At first I wanted to throttle Harry for 'volunteering' me on an assignment that would forever change my opinion on what this country stands for. Harry thought enough of my first year to include me as an aide to himself and other senior CIA workers. Remember, Harry did not have many friends. I learned Harry and Glenda were only together for their three grandkids. There would be no problem with the long separation. I am sure Glenda had someone closer to her age on the side.

A prearranged car service took Harry and me to Cleveland Hopkins airport for a flight to CIA headquarters in Virginia. While in flight, Harry gave me a folder with paperwork for me to read in one hours time. A lot of CIA mumbo jumbo that was unfamiliar to me. I asked what this is all about and Harry said just read and no questions until reaching headquarters. Harry let me take my tie off. Something told me this was serious even for Harry.

A well dressed aide escorted Harry and me from Dulles Airport to CIA headquarters. During the ride, Harry put his arm around me and said what we were about to embark on was big. Very big. He wasn't kidding. He told me a two-year employee does not get this type of assignment. He made it clear he expected a very expensive Christmas gift from me at the end of the year for him landing me this assignment.

Harry was greeted warmly in the headquarters lobby by a couple of old acquaintances from days past. He introduced me, then told me to take our luggage to the nearby five-star hotel. The beginning of me being a peon on this assignment. Later that night at the hotel, Harry and a senior agent named Miles Workman would begin to formulate the plan of action that would take us into the hottest situation on the planet.

"Run down to the service desk and get me a pack of Pall Mall. Get whatever you want...within reason," requested Miles. I wanted a one-way ticket back home. After leaving the room, I put my ear to the door where Harry could be heard complaining about the suddenness of this assignment. Harry should be glad he won't be around Glenda for an extended period.

Upon returning to the room, Harry told me to sit, listen and take notes. Finally a little insight into what is going to evolve.

"On or about September fifteenth, there will be a group of CIA agents accompanied by non-uniform military elite personnel from Ramstein entering Iran just inside the border. Presently, there is personnel maintaining an outpost there with no resistance to date. Very much undercover with locals providing a warning system. This in return for cold hard cash. Always works, Harry. And Max, I want you to to grow your hair long. You get to be a goddamn hippie," Miles explained puffing his Pall Mall with authority. "Our goal is the release of the hostages. By unconventional methods. That is all I have to say for now".

Miles lit up another smoke and informed Harry and me that for the next sixty days we would be undergoing various scenario training in preparation for September. Harry said it meant staying alive. Harry knew better. I trust Harry. As Miles started to leave he turned and said enjoy the next thirty-six hours. Then report to my office no later than 8 AM.

"Time to use a little expense money, Max. Downstairs to the bar. Hut, hut, hut..." Harry happily chimed for once. We closed down the hotel bar four hours later but not before Harry let me in on what to expect on this assignment. Harry was much better expressing his opinions after three or four beers. No hard stuff for Harry. Just ice cold beer.

"Lion. You are a lion . But don't tell anyone. That is your codename. The beer told me to tell you. You would have found out very shortly. From now on, any correspondence you receive must have the word lion within the message. No lion, fake message. You will be tested. Don't mess up. They do test. Two more beers, here. Heiniken this time 'round" growled Harry as he reached for a handful of popcorn. "Two months from now, life becomes a lot more serious. What it all comes down to is you are getting paid to perform a service for your country. Whether you agree or not. No choice. Just their choice. For thirty-one years I have had no choice. This job really is seven days a week to include all holidays. Besides, don't you get bored sitting around on Christmas? I'm sixty-one now, but I feel seventy-one. Do I look it? Don't you dare answer. Max, you are twenty-four. When I was twenty-four, I first met Glenda. Love at first site. Then we get married. Have three kids. They get married. We have three grandkids. Glenda hates me. What I am trying to say to you, Max, is enjoy your life now. You have time later to start a family. That is if we make it back from Iran".

I let Harry talk the whole four hours. He made a lot of sense. He usually does. Most of the time. I think I am his only friend.

September 1980

By now my hair was no longer CIA looking. Harry still looks Harry, gray hair but slightly longer. Joining us for the morning briefing was Miles and three agents who would remain in our group for the remainder of the mission. Villem DeBoer, Davis Holmes and Dieter Franks were considered in a class by themselves. Harry knew Dieter from an assignment fifteen years ago. The six of us would have to rely on each other if this assignment was to be successful. No small task with me being a part of this veteran CIA who's who.

I half expected Lee Marvin to enter the conference room to conduct a mission briefing. The half dirty dozen. In all, there were twenty people joining the six of us to fly aboard a military transport plane to an undisclosed location. From there: Iran. I occupied a jeep on the plane. Some sat in seats and others sprawled amongst the equipment on the plane. Harry sat in a seat that faced the back of the plane. He hated flying. He'd rather look at where the plane has flown than looking at where the plane is flying. If it made sense to Harry, then it made sense to me.

A slightly rough touchdown alerted everyone to prepare to debark the plane. Miles let everyone know he ordered the pilot to make a rougher landing. Miles would turn out to be a traitor. On the flight, I had a conversation with Villem. His background did not match the usual CIA type. He was a musician from Holland via Boston. His goal was to become a world famous rockstar. One day he is playing guitar, the next, undercover searching for some whacked out leader of a third world country. Villem said he would tell me the whole story in detail as our mission went forward.

All of six of us gathered at a small canteen set-up to give weary souls something to wet their whistle. Being the peon meant supplying the others food and the only drink of choice, a homemade concoction lacking in taste but more than potent. We had twenty-four hours before leaving to go just inside the Iranian border. The food was bland but better than the stale snacks we had on the plane. Miles was his usual distracted self. He called me over.

"How did you get this assignment? If I had it my way, you would still be in Cleveland doing your desk job". Harry overheard this and pulled Miles to one side. I am not a lip reader but Harry appeared to mention a body opening in his comments to Miles. They walked outside to probably cool off. We were all on edge for a time.

"They go back even farther than Harry and me," explained Dieter. "Harry once told me that Miles never forgave him for a botched assignment that cost Miles a promotion. Watch out for Miles, Max. Stay close to Harry. There is not much Villem, Dieter and I can do to protect you. Code if you will. If you stay in the CIA you will know what I mean".

The next two days meant no showers and only MREs for food. We had to act the same as our military counterparts from Ramstein. The somewhat long expedition into Iran was surprisingly uneventful. Davis had the most problem because he is ill. Miles thinks it is food poisoning. The daytime temperature of one hundred-ten degrees did not help the matter. The nights were warm but the dry air eased the daytime extreme.

Our arrival at base camp 'Alpha' was met with disappointment as those there thought we were dropping off supplies. It was a rough experience the next few days awaiting the actual arrival of supplies. Tempers were thankfully kept in check. Two large trucks of unknown origin showed up at three in the morning with enough goods of all kinds to last the entire Alpha camp for 60 days. The delivery crew made it known they would not unload unless cash was exchanged. And an impressive amount was exchanged. Harry told me later that the invoice list of supplies never matches what is actually received. Black market rules.

Our first real mission meeting was chaired by Miles and a CIA counterpart from British MI6. 'Brit' McCallister was his name and he was only in camp for two days. A jovial sort who reminded me of Benny Hill. I never found out anything about him. A peon like me can only assume another's real intentions in situations such as this.

"Gentlemen, I have passed out an outline of my briefing. Also joining us this morning are some of the Ramstein personnel. They don't exist. We don't exist. Now that we understand the ground rules, lets begin" Miles said sipping lukewarm coffee with a kick to it. "Very simply, we will rescue 53 hostages in Tehran. No air support. No ground support. Just us. Don't worry, we will get support once we reach a certain point in the rescue attempt." From Cleveland to Tehran. And why did they tell me not to cut my hair?

Miles continued, "This mission has been approved by Jimmy Carter himself and his buddies on whatever intelligence committee. Can you believe there was talk we had to be under budget. Just shows you how they think. Dieter and Davis have been here before. For those who need a little guidance, talk to them. Ask them questions. You had better know your role before October 5. That is the day. Each of you here has a crucial part and if you do not perform your part then it will cost lives. One of which will most certainly be your own . Isn't that right, Harry?" I could tell that was a deep dig at Harry from what Dieter told me earlier. Dieter had a certain compassion that said 'I'll forgive you once' and a toughness that said 'second time means demotion'. This is a serious business at this level.

At this point I was asked to leave. Why I wondered. They are just using me and will send me back before October fifth. They wouldn't do that, would they? These veteran agents reach a point in a mission where instinct takes over. Over time, you are immune to fear. Common sense is taken over by a constant adrenalin flow needed to stay awake and alert for forty hours at times. They know how to handle it. I don't. I'm not scared but there is no one here that has my apprehension. I am twenty-four. The others average fifty-four years old. I don't want to hear them tell me what it was like when they were my age. They live in the present. I live looking to the future.

October 1, 1980

Davis Holmes has left to go back to the states. He did not have food poisoning as first thought. It was explained to me he had a medical malfunction. Harry felt Miles was disappointed in Davis and made up an excuse to ship him out. It seemed strange that there was no replacement for him. Now five have to work as six in a couple days. Davis Holmes had said only a couple words to me since we have been in Iran. He must have felt I was useless. Even Miles gradually accepted me. He even laughed at a joke I told one evening. Must have been the couple snorts of the homemade local alcohol that tasted like, well, piss.

One of the Ramstein guys approached me after lunch. He heard I was working out of east Cleveland and wondered if the Agora was still hopping. I informed him I had been there a couple of times to see Joe Walsh and Todd Rundgren. It was nice to hear from someone familiar with the area. Now I am homesick and pissed-off that I even answered his question. I bet Harry was like this at twenty-four. Pissed off, but with Glenda. Something was bothering Harry and I was soon to find out. Boy, was I ever going to find out.

October 2, 1980

Harry literally pulled me out of my makeshift bed and hauled my half-asleep ass to his much nicer sleeping arrangements and closed the creaky door shut. He began to half whisper words that threw me for a loop.

"We are screwed. Big time, Max. Let me repeat that. WE ARE SCREWED. The whole mission is a fraud. That piece of crap Miles. He left last night with some people who looked rather satisfied. He left me a message that was sent to him by a name that I recognized from back in the early sixties. Someone outed this mission to rescue the hostages".

Harry was more than eager to explain the details to me. We had to pack as a small convoy would be taking us back, since the mission is aborted, on the original route we used to arrive here.

"Listen very close to what I am saying, Max. The election is hinging on the hostage situation. If Carter gets the release of the hostages before the election, he wins. Reagan knows this. His future administration, meaning his vice presidential pick, George Bush, and William Casey have negotiated a deal with Iran for them to hold the hostages past the election. This will undoubtedly give Reagan the presidency. Do you understand what I am saying, Max?"

I nodded and wondered to myself why did this happen. Harry would explain.

"We owe Iran over $100 million in weapons based on a previous deal. Iran desperately needs these weapons. There is talk of war between Iran and Iraq. The deal struck centered on arms being shipped to Iran through Israel. The Ayatollah will release the hostages during Reagan's swearing-in ceremony. Not until then. If Reagan wins, the election is rigged. You know what, Max? You and I can't do a damn thing about it."

"Harry, would I have been included in the actual hostage rescue?" I asked.

"No. Sorry. That was decided long ago."

"Do I have to get my haircut when we get back to the office?"

"Yes."

November 1980

Reagan won the election. The deciding factor was indeed the failure of Carter to bring home the hostages. I watched how the media put all the hostage failures on Carter. Was it his idea to give the former Shah of Iran asylum in the U.S.? Didn't anyone see problems affecting relations with Iran due to the granted asylum? I am beginning to wonder if this whole asylum act was intended so a hostage situation takes place. To be used to rig an election. I started to think in this manner for the next thirty-five years.

January 21, 1981

"Some 30 minutes ago, the planes bearing our prisoners left Iranian air space, and they're now free of Iran" crowed new president Ronald Reagan at a post inauguration ceremony shown on television.

Son...of...a...bitch....

March 30, 1981

The morning was rather uneventful. Harry was out of the office until noon. The new office transfer, Dave Brown, came to us courtesy of a field office in Texas. Dave had ten years experience and was knowledgable of the politics being used to control the current administration.

"Reagan's whole administration will control him the next four years. My god, the heavyweights he has chosen. Or I should say,'chosen for him'. Do you realize that?" harped Dave in his ongoing editorial of the days' politics. "Reagan did not want Bush as Vice President. He knew what the guy was all about. Two totally different people, Ron and George."

Karen Shiloh was our office secretary and 'go to person' for anything needed to make everything function in a somewhat normal manner. She even persuaded Harry to buy a used television so we could monitor events on the days' happenings. Today was no exception.

"The President has been SHOT!" yelled a frantic Karen as the clock hands denoted a 2:45 pm time. Harry, now back in the office, ran like a gazelle from his office down the short steps to the reception area to catch the news. The guy is still in shape.

"Everyone, get over here now. Max, check and see if any alerts are being sent from Columbus. Karen, get another pot of coffee going. This is going to be a long day and night," commanded a take-charge Harry Burr.

Three months into his first term, the president has been shot. Why? Is this connected to the election? Jon Hinckley, Jr. The last name sounded somewhat familiar to me. It sounded very familiar to Harry.

Later in the afternoon, Harry called a meeting after getting off the phone with a contact from Virginia. He seemed to know more than what he was telling us.

"The president took a bullet to his rib cage. It was touch and go for awhile but it appears he will spend some time in the hospital. Vice President Bush is now acting president. Someone named Jon Hinkley, senior, I mean junior, shot him. No motive at this point in time" said Harry in a compassionate manner of speaking. I could tell that Harry wants to be in on the investigation. He certainly knows the political playing field as well as anyone. Maybe that is a problem. Knowing the field too well.

The middle of an all-nighter was interrupted when Harry called me into his office. I hope he lets me in on today's events.

"I have known you now going on two years. You still have a lot to learn, but you are more advanced than others I have trained. Look, this shooting does not make sense. I know and have met Jon Hinckley Sr. Why would his son shoot the president. Always ask yourself, 'who gains' from this sort of event."

"Tell me more about Hinckley senior. It does seem rather odd his son is involved," I asked almost nodding off to sleep.

"Before I do, I plan on being asked to assist with the background on how this shooting was planned. Would you like to be an aide once again? This time, I will tell you in advance that all you will do is assist in an admin function. Nothing more. Sound interested?"

"Another four star hotel with indoor pool? If so, then count me in."

"Only the best for you and me. Dave will man this office and another CIA person from the Pittsburgh office will be temporarily assigned here. I met Hinckley senior back in 1975 after Ford appointed Bush head of the CIA. At that time, I was working on Watergate follow-up interviews and one day at a function for Bush, Hinckley was introduced to me in the buffet line. We sat together and though it was small talk, I could sense an importance about him.

"Bush and Hinckley were connected. No question about that fact. Hinckley contributed to the presidential run. They had many common friends from oil and government. Lets look at 'who gains', Max. Someone is pulling the strings but we may never know. It is obvious who pulled the strings with the JFK assassination. It was a coup by our own government. It changed everything. This country has never recovered. I am not a betting man, but I will wager everything I have that Reagan was an assassination attempt just like JFK. We just have to let it play out."

I liked when Harry got right to the point. First there was the hostage release on Inauguration Day and now this shooting. These type of events do not happen just by chance.

Harry was right again: he was asked to assist the shooting investigation. I did not accompany him to Virginia as I was working a local case. As soon as that is wrapped up, I can join Harry. I got a call a couple days after Harry left that turned out to be of great interest. One of Harry's old buddies from CIA days past was passing through the Cleveland area. With Harry gone, his buddy invited me out for a couple beers so I could update him on the past couple years of the office goings-on. He wanted nothing fancy so I arranged to meet at Huggys on Main. If it was good enough for Harry, then it is good enough for his friend.

Nate Beckman was six foot-seven with pontoon size shoes. A slight limp, acquired from college basketball, made Nate appear to be much older than his real age of sixty. His first words to me were, 'on the house, food and drink. My last expense account purchases'. Nate was retiring after a long CIA career all over world. Nate met Harry on an assignment during the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. They were to monitor possible foreign backlash to the outcome of who was selected as presidential nominee. Too many bad things happened diplomatically in regards to assignations regarding MLK and RFK.

"Tell me Max, why did you join the CIA? I always like to ask young employees that question."

"Desperation? I wanted to have a job available for me at college graduation. The money wasn't the biggest factor. Just something guaranteed. Ask me this question five years from now. You will get a better answer."

After dinner and a couple more beers, Nate told me a story that I often thought about when daydreaming. He met his wife through work friends and after dating for a year, he asked her to marry him. She said yes but she was transferring to another CIA office on the west coast. Nate had been situated on the east coast for some time, so his future wife's assignment might cause relationship problems before the marriage even started. After his fiancÚ transferred out west, Nate begged for an assignment, any type of assignment, to be closer to the west coast. He got an assignment in Los Angeles that seemed nothing out of the ordinary. His fiancÚ was located up the California coast about one hundred miles, which made visits much easier.

The year was 1967. Nate was assigned to a program which dealt in behavior modification. Some call it brainwashing. Others call it a necessity to maintain a sane society. Nate called it just a job when he first reported to his new assignment.

"Max, the states were changing. Hippies. LSD. Vietnam. LBJ. And on and on. The leaders of the country were afraid of where the country was headed. Problem was the leaders were the ones ruining the country. Damn fools. I wasn't much different than the long hairs. Just my job title made me different. Know what I mean, Max?

"Vietnam was total bullshit. A lie. Sold to the public. The idiots who bought it.....just plain idiots. Harry knows and I know that JFK was an inside hit. The last thing those in control wanted was another Kennedy as president. My assignment was related to my previous sentence. It was what to do about RFK. Let me tell you something, as true as anything I have ever said, there was tremendous paranoia among those involved with JFK that RFK was going to reopen the Warren Commission. He was out for blood."

Nate was on the fringe of his assignment. You are on a need-to-know basis as in 'you don't need to know until we tell you'. I understand what Nate went through in Los Angeles. And so should 'you the reader' from what you have read so far.

(Fast forward to '85 as I am still connecting the dots to finish this section)

May 1985

In one sense, I dreaded this day, but I also very much looked forward to it. A new location. Saying goodbye to a supervisor and now good friend. This transfer included a step-promotion and an increase in my paycheck. My next destination was an office in Utrecht. A city located in Holland. I will be one of two Americans in an office manned by three Dutch locals. I heard they like to wear wooden shoes. My type of country.

After hugs and handshakes to my fellow office workers at the end of my last day in the Cleveland area office, Harry Aidan Barr called me into his 'den'. I think my leaving will be rough on him for a short time. I just wanted to say goodbye and leave. I knew this was going to be a downer for me.

"Sit your butt down, Max. I saved these two beers from our last party. The type of beer that you keep warm. The type, after one bottle, makes you want to dance a little," garbled a surprisingly sentimental supervisor.

"From May of '79 to this day in '85, we have logged a lot of hours together. Many hours, many good times. Don't you think? Don't answer. Six years and you are still a big dummy! But a smart dummy! One of the best I have trained. Now you can either use my training and keep yourself from trouble, or you can disregard all that I have taught you and put others at risk. Knowing you, you will avoid trouble," said in a heartfelt way by Harry.

Harry got up to take a bathroom break and my mind began a quick review of the last six years. It flashed by in seconds. Each key moment analyzed for the successes and the laughs from hysterical situations that only someone in the CIA could understand. I got up and put a cassette into Harry's dime store stereo. I heard the bathroom door open and began the tape. Though I am a progressive rock fan, my selection was just for Harry.

"Now where were we, Max. Lion. Irons. Dave Brubeck....'Take Five'. You picked my favorite song. Glenda hates jazz with a passion. The passion of a badger fending off an enemy. Let me tell you, we fought like cat and dog, or should I say cat and badger. But not in front of the kids and later the grandkids. Glenda sometimes drinks too much. That is my fault from this job and all the pressure that comes with it. We talked divorce but agreed to stay together, but for all nice-nice appearances, we were separated. Money made her happy and it kept her off my case. Fair enough."

I just nodded to Harry's ad-lib, really emotional goodbye. No tears between us. Just a sadness when two people move on after six years together.

"Max, from now on you have to fight to get heard. It gets much harder the longer you are in the CIA. Someone is always looking over your shoulder. Just do what you do. You do it well. Don't be so nice. There are lifers who will eat you alive knowing you are a threat to their promotions. Always remember this: as much as you are doing a service for our country, you have to lookout for yourself. I mean that! That is my final advice for you. You are now officially relieved of duty from my office. Get out of my sight!"

I got up and shook Harry's hand and gave him an emotional hug and pat on the back. As I neared the door, Harry cleared his throat. I didn't look back .

"I think of you like a son. And a friend. One day, if you are in the CIA for an extended period, you will train others. Treat them a little rough but give them room to grow. Never let them one-up you. Once that happens, it is all but over."

I nodded, gave a thumbs up and exited. It would be the last time I talked to Harry. He never told me he was sick. Sick enough to announce his retirement twenty-four hours later.

June 1985

After a transfer at Gatwick Airport in England, the short flight to Schipol Airport in Amsterdam was time for me to double-check just what the heck I will be doing later that day and into the future while in Holland. The plane descended into a white blanket of fog that made landing a little more nervous than usual. Out of nowhere, the runway was in sight and my heart began a more normal beat.

My American contact met me outside customs. We exchanged small talk and soon arrived at the train station located at the airport. Fourty-five minutes later, I got off the train and inhaled my first deep breath of European air. At the Utrecht station, one of the Dutch CIA counterparts approached me and introduced herself. Katrina. Katrina van Tilburg. Blonde. Beautiful. I am in love.

Keenan French was my American contact from the office. He is a fifteen year CIA employee who plays a mean one-on-one basketball at our small court in the alley behind our brick office located close to one of the many canals in the area. Keenan made his home available to me for the first month until I found my own flat just on the edge of town. His wife, Shawna, was a superb cook who mixed soul food and European food together. Simply amazing the dishes she prepared night after night. Their young twins provided entertainment those first thirty days.

My first day at the office after moving into my flat was relaxing. Having your own place is so much better than relying on others. Keenan and his family would be close to my heart in the time I spent in Holland. On that note, the whole office was really close. More like family than co-workers. Besides Katrina, the other two Dutch employees were Gert Boorn and Stacie Helms.

Gert and Keenan got along well. Almost like brothers. Brothers of two different colors. Gert always says Keenan gets a better tan than him. Gert is white and in need of much sun. Keenan is from the Canary Islands and the product of a black U.S. service member and a local gal who arrived from Ireland. I find Europe much more tolerant of one's skin color than the states. Must be the closeness of all the different countries and their cultures. A beautiful thing really.

Stacie Helms was a well known woman field hockey player in Utrecht during her school days. Only a severely broken ankle denied her a chance to be a member of Holland's 1976 olympic womens field hockey team. She had that 'playing game' mentality everyday at work. Sometimes too serious to handle. Especially when one has a hangover from the previous night's activities. But she liked to ice skate during the Dutch winter and I would occasionally join her and her friends for a relaxing spin on the canals.

Just a sample. So far I am piecing together parts of the book over different time spans. It may not be the greatest thing you ever read but it keeps me out of trouble.